For the second month in a row, I missed my monthly hike for Reed. Twice now, I have found myself instead by his little brother's side in the hospital on the tenth of the month.
Both times, I have felt guilty even though I knew I was where I needed to be. After both of my boys spent so much of their first days (for Reed, his only days) alone in the NICU, I am determined that Sage will never have to spend another moment in a hospital without someone he loves holding his hand and comforting him. Last month, my mother was my proxy. She hiked for Reed because I couldn't. A few days later we all traveled to Multnomah Falls in Oregon together, a place that has always helped us feel connected to Reed. In fact, Sage's middle name comes from the town where these falls are located - a permanent connection between two brothers. It wasn't exactly right, but it was something. Just a temporary hiccup in a routine that allows me to honor my son.
This time, it felt less like a temporary hiccup and more like a slow forgetting. When I realized that I would once again be unable to devote the time I wanted to Reed in the way I had planned, I feared that this would gradually become the new normal. Slowly, all our traditions for Reed might be set aside until he is nothing more than a footnote in our family, a person who we sometimes mention and remember, but who doesn't hold the same weight as those who are here. I am terrified of this happening, and I worried by skipping this monthly ritual again, I was allowing it to begin.
This most recent hospital visit was full of echoes of the most painful moments of Reed's life. It had the same machines, the same alarms, the fear and uncertainty not exactly as intense, but similar in so many ways. It felt like we were replacing him with how things should have been - terrifying, serious, but ultimately fixable.
With this in mind, I decided to go for a walk once Sage was stable. I took my journal, intending to just sit in the sunshine in the courtyard we could see from Sage's 9th floor window and write about everything that had been happening. I needed a chance to process the triggers and memories of our time with Reed, and separate the two experiences. As I headed that way, I instead found myself in the Children's Peace Garden.
It felt as though Reed had led me here. There were placards along the winding pathways that held quotes with messages of hope - words I needed during this visit with Sage. Some of the placards, however, seemed to carry quotes that felt more connected to Reed. As I wandered through the paths, I realized that this space allowed me to hold what I was feeling for each of my boys. Here, there was room for grief, fear, longing, and hope.
Toward the back of the garden was a labyrinth. I began to walk along the red lines, surprised that they were not as straightforward as I had expected them to be. Abruptly, they would stop or branch off, and I would be left with a choice rather than a clear path forward. After a while, I realized I had been walking on the outline of the path, not the path itself. I laughed at my mistake, and then I began to wonder. I wasn't exactly doing it wrong....after all, I was still using it to quiet my fears and focus my mind. But I wasn't using it the obvious way most people would.
This made me wonder if I've done the same thing with my grief. It's easy for me to remind myself that there is no right or wrong way to grieve, that it looks different for every person. I know better than to compare my walk through grief to others. And yet...nearly three and a half years in, I still wonder sometimes if there is an obvious path through grief that I am missing. Not that I am doing it wrong...but is it harder than it should be? Because the truth is...after nearly three and a half years, it is still just so hard.
I don't know the answers. I don't know why both of my sons had to fight so much just to breathe, or why one of them recovered and the other one didn't. I don't know how the rituals we've built to make space for Reed in our family will shift and change over the years, or if those shifts will always feel like forgetting. Walking the labyrinth reminded me that I don't have to know the answers to these impossible questions, now or ever. It reminded me that, even when my grief looks different from everyone else's, what I feel is still real. It is still okay.
It also helped me see that, even when my monthly ritual looks different, it does not mean Reed holds any less weight in my heart than before. We found each other in that Peace Garden, the same way we might have in the middle of a quiet trail. It wasn't the wrong thing to do for him that month...it was just different. I think someday I will be okay with that.
